


Not Pretty, But Something

by eyebrowofdoom



Series: Fucking Normal People [1]
Category: Cruel Intentions
Genre: Blackmail, Drug Dealing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-01
Updated: 2002-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seduction and betrayal of Greg McConnell by Blaine Tuttle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Pretty, But Something

**Author's Note:**

> CI 2 was an unpleasant hallucination caused by some funky gear probably supplied by an unscrupulous Blaine, and none of its back story holds.
> 
> This is my fanfiction juvenilia (circa 2002), partaking of an entirely appropriate spirit of smoking behind the shelter shed.

With a last, suggestive stroke to the glass shaft of the bong on my desk, Sebastian leaves my room, coat tails flying. And, though there are a number of things I’d rather have from Sebastian, I take his money from where he’s left it on the desk. And I call Greg McConnell to move our little rendevous forward.

“Ok, dude. Cool,” Greg says to the change of plan, “See you then.”

 _Dude_? What, are his jock buddies listening in the background? Sure, he’s got his little scared voice on, talking at, like, a third of the volume he was when he first picked up. But when a man calls you up and says your name in the honeyed little voice I just did, who the hell turns around and calls that man _dude_?

I think it means his jock buddies _are_ there, and he is _very_ happy to be getting off the line.

Aw.

God knows who he tells the jocks he was talking to. Maybe his mother. I wonder if I could do a good telephone mother impersonation. Enough to fool anyone listening in the background, but leaving Greg in no doubt just who he was talking to.

Open season on baby names. _Sweetie_ , _Pumpkin_. _Schnookums_.

Hmm.

God, I think I’m starting to get hard. First Sebastian tearing around in here like a caged beast. Getting to talk nasty to him, getting to say shit like “pillow-kissing.” Telling him about the things I do with boys who aren’t half as pretty as him.

Now this. Thinking about the colour Greg’s face would turn.

* * *

So I spend the rest of the day trying not to brush my crotch against anything. Such a waste to wank when you’re about to get paid to get some. The best part being, that it’s some you wanted anyway.

I take a few calls, then, feeling all customer-friendly, I take a walk up my block and make a drop-off at the park. With all the big backyards, the elms and the wide streets, the park is almost a pointless place around here. Though Sebastian and I used to walk my dog down here and cruise for girls.

Girls for him, that is. Though it wasn’t always out in the open, that that was the case. I came out to Sebastian right there on that park bench. It was this one time — we were fourteen or so — when he came back from the far side of the park with this blonde he’d been feeling up, and I was still just sitting, talking to her friend, a brunette, on the park bench where we’d met them. As they were walking away, Sebastian was checking out the brunette’s ass. “Like two halves of a ripe peach,” he was saying. “Jesus, did you even get her number?”

I said, “No.”

“No?” he said, loud and theatrical. If there’s anything Sebastian gets righteous about, it’s pussy.

“I don’t want her,” I said, clearly.

“Are you queer or what?” he demanded. His lips were pursed, his eyebrow cocked.

It just slipped out. I said, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

His face was frozen in the same position.

“The fact is, I’d much rather have you,” I said. “But since I know that’s not going to happen, I’m just along for the ride.”

For a long moment he stared. Then at last, a small smile appeared. “Interesting,” he said.

I threw my shoulders back against the bench. Tried to keep from laughing out loud with relief.

“Somehow,” he said, “though I’ll admit I didn’t see this coming, I’m not entirely surprised.”

“I should hope not,” I said, in the sweet little fag voice I’d just recently started practicing in private. I winked at him.

He grinned right back. That’s Sebastian for you. That little treasure about me wanting not just any boy, but him specifically? He just rolled with it, and filed it away for reference.

My straight boy customer, in a letter sweater, heads back to his car. I get up off the particular bench I chose, sentimentally, to sit on. I’ve got body lotion to apply.

* * *

It’s night, and Greg comes round.

He’s wearing sweats, taking my stairs two at a time. I can see the compression strap marks on his ankles where the sweats pull up as he climbs. Tossing around those _tragic_ bangs like one of those big dumb… what are those dogs, Great Danes?

And he gets to the top of the stairs, and I’m only half way up. Then he’s all embarrassed because it’s my house, and he doesn’t want to just wander off down the hall without me.

He hovers on the landing and waits for me to walk the rest of the way up like a fucking normal person.

Jock.

Hasn’t said a word yet. Except “Hey” at the door. But that’s not a word, that’s a syllable.

I look up at him with big, lashed eyes as I squeeze past him on the landing. Though it’s not a small landing, and I can’t imagine where all the space has gone.

In the kitchen, I put on my best, sweet little nasal voice and offer him a soda.

“No, thanks,” he says, shaking his big dumb dog ears.

He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen. Just standing, hands together in front of him. Most people gravitate towards furniture: they lean on the bench, or something.

Not him.

Wait. Tell me that’s not the required posture during the national anthem.

“It’s nearly started, come on,” I say.

I hold the kitchen door open for him, a little too long, and brush his hand with mine as I’m letting go.

* * *

We have a history of a kind, Greg McConnell and I. Closeted jocks… if that’s not a tautology. Gotta love ‘em.

Greg was one of that group of guys that didn’t like the look of me from day one at school. My bleached hair, my preppy style. That “hey, faggot” shit started from the jock crowd right off the bat. They’d be round their table in the cafeteria, and there’d be these rumbles as you went past. Sometimes they threw straws.

Then some of them worked out I was going to be their contact for coke, and it started to tail off. But Greg’s main currency was the dirty look, and that never went away from any of them.

You know the difference between me and dorks? Dorks give a shit.

I mean, really.

The alliance with Sebastian helped, I admit. He’d been in too many panties. He was untouchable — a kind of fiefdom of one.

Anyway, one day in tenth grade it went around that something had gone down with the football team photo that was up on a noticeboard. The third person I talked to said somebody had written “virgin” and an arrow at Greg. And that Greg was absolutely ready to rumble about it.

I thought it was pretty funny. That he was a big dumb asshole.

I’d had one of those fucked up cafeteria confrontations with Greg about a week before, as you do when you’re one of the people that walks past that table and gets noise made at you. I’d been walking past and he’d said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

I’d said, “You, sweetheart.” What else was I going to say?

The jock table had just absolutely erupted with noise. The way the jock table does.

That had been the week before. Then, on the day I heard about the business with the football photo, it was the end of period five, gym. Everyone else had finished and left for period six. I was running behind time changing, I guess. Silly me. If I were a female teenage virgin, the serial killer would have chosen that moment to strike.

The scenario was not entirely dissimilar.

Greg came marching around the corner of the locker bank. Sweat pants, bare feet, no shirt.

He stomped over, grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me against the lockers.

“What the fuck, you freak!?” he yelled.

He was standing over me — much taller than me. His hands on my shoulders. He was sweating. I could smell it, acrid and yeasty.

I mouthed “ow”, from where my head had hit.

I looked him in the eyes, and his stare was indigo black — he had more pupil than iris.

For all that I’d bumped my head, he hadn’t actually pushed me against the locker that hard.

I was just getting this _vibe_. I was still staring up at him, and it seemed like far too much time had elapsed for it to make any sense to say anything now.

I thought about how fragile, really, the casing of bone was around my spinal cord. Then I reached out and laid one hand on his hip.

He didn’t move a muscle. The skin around his mouth maybe flattened, maybe loosened a little bit.

I moved the other hand onto his other hip, and again he didn’t react.

I dropped my gaze from his. Like handling my own spine, which in a way I was, I slipped my fingers under the waistband of his sweatpants.

He moved his hands onto the locker on either side of me and leaned forward right over me, resting the top of his head against the locker. His collarbone was maybe an inch from my lips. The smell of his sweat was intense.

I eased his sweatpants down his hips.

Any time now my mother was going to turn up with my dog when it was still a puppy, in company with the bull I can’t run away from, and the man who keeps stealing my bike. And that ice sculpture that was in the middle of the class that one time.

He had the tiniest trail of hair beginning half way up his ribcage.

Getting a man with an erection out of a jockstrap is something you should really be able to have a joke about. But I couldn’t see anyone there in the mood for a laugh.

I touched his bare hip briefly, feather-lightly. Then I took his cock in my hand. Trailed it all over with fingertips. Cupped his balls. I squeezed my hand up between our bodies and spat in my palm.

I jerked him off with all the dexterity I could muster for the occasion. No warranty on how much that was.

The closest thing he made to a noise was a kind of “Ah” when he came on my t-shirt, followed by hot, jerky breaths I could feel on the back of my neck.

He leaned hard on my shoulder as he straightened up. Didn’t look at me. Strode off.

The sneaking into my dorm room shit started later that month. The first time I opened my door and saw him there, I said, “What do you want?” He twitched like he was going to bolt.

Finally he settled for just shuffling a half step forward, and then another, and then another, until he was standing right up close to me. He just stood there with big, scared, doe eyes.

I’m not a habitual friend of abandoned animals, you know? I was at sea. I cupped his elbow with one hand. Took a step back, coaxed him to follow so he was clear of the door and I could swing it shut and lock it.

With the same slow steps and hand on his elbow, I eased us back against the wall. He knew this position. He rested his forehead against the wall above my shoulder. He went for my belt.

It took us four goes before I could get him over on the bed and actually making out with me before anyone’s pants came off. But we made real progress after that. By the end of the tenth grade, we were fucking, sucking, the works. There was always the same shit afterwards, of course. I’m all cuddly and full of come, and he’s like, “God, what the fuck are you doing? Get off me, you freak!”

 _Blah, fucking blah_.

* * *

The credits are rolling on the movie, and Greg’s appointment with destiny is right on schedule.

We’d started out very clearly each to his own side of the sofa. We were two guys watching TV.

Then I, for one, shifted about to get comfortable. The best sofa in the world does have a centre of gravity in the middle, after all.

Ten minutes in, Greg’s knees had fallen open, and then so had mine, as they do when men relax on sofas. Then a bit later he carelessly cast a hand onto the cushion between us. Another five minutes and I shifted a bit, stretched a crick out of my leg.

Later, he rearranged him arms, then dropped his hand again, and it happened that it fell to brush the back of its knuckles against my leg.

Three quarters of the way through, and our askew knees happened to be touching. Greg does have such long, athletic legs, after all.

I had been sitting still a long while, and finally I had to have a good stretch, arms right above my head, and when I settled myself back down again, my ass was in a slightly different position. Now we were so close, he didn’t have anywhere to put that hand that had been in the middle, so he had to stretch his arm out along the back of the couch behind me.

I jigged my knee up and down a little bit, idly, as you do when you’re watching television. Snuggled right up against him.

Now the movie is finished, and here we are. There is a faint shift in the springs of the couch. Greg practically has his arm around me. I guess he’s processing that information.

* * *

He watches the credits intently. That bottom lip of his is pushed out.

I lay the back of my hand on his thigh. Just lay it there.

He turns his head and looks at me.

He’s not pretty the way, say, Sebastian is pretty. But he’s… something. The long line of the bones of his face. The way he drops his head and his blue eyes go dark when he’s confused.

I guess it helps that he’s confused most of the time around me.

I twist around in my seat, and lean over and rub my forehead against the inner elbow of the arm he has across the back of the sofa. The skin there is warm and soft and creased.

I do that very slowly, for a little while.

I exchange my forehead for my open mouth there on his inner elbow, and ease out a mouthful of hot air. Very lightly, I trace the crease with the tip of my tongue. It’s salty.

Then I stop.

“Did you like it?” I ask.

He stares at me.

Then he leans over.

There are two things that can happen now. The second one is that he squeals something like “You’re a freak, man!”, cringes back like he’s been burnt, and stomps out of the room.

We’ve certainly had that one before, and it’s old, but they say some things never go out of style.

He’s still leaning over. He may have leant too far for number two. I think we’re on schedule for number one.

And here it is.

He kisses like you would think a big jock kisses. Hard, wet, deep and all of a sudden. A lot of tongue.

I really can’t say I mind. He cups my jaw with his hand and fills my mouth. He tickles inside my ear with a fingertip for a second, then slides his fingers into my hair, grips my hair, like how he’ll want to grip it with both hands later. The other hand creeps along my knee.

Moving right along.

I make a sound in my throat, and take a hold of his jaw and push his face away. Flatten my knee to escape his grip there. Then I’m up off the couch. As quickly, I am down again, kneeling straddled across his lap.

“Ah, Gregory,” I simper. I’m just Greg’s happy little faggot. No, I don’t mind if he calls me names afterwards. Hell, I’m barely human. I just want to get my little faggot rocks off.

It takes him a second, and then he’s pulling my shirt out of my waistband and pushing it up in front, licking down the middle of my chest. Stroking his hands up and down my back. Now clamping that mouth of his on my nipple.

Oh God.

Hey, I never said I didn’t like it.

His hands separate my ass cheeks through my pants, and start to knead. Pants that are already getting uncomfortable in front.

I told Sebastian before that the only reason I put up with Greg’s crap is the _mouth like a Hoover_. But I lied.

It’s… this. All of this. The ragged breaths. The frantic hands. I’m the only piece of man Greg’s going to get for months at a time, and he needs the taste to last him. He needs to drink it down deep.

He’s breathing frantically, eyes closed; my ass aches from the way he’s squeezing it. I’ve got to get the man up and into bed or we’re in real danger of a pants-down-only job here: he’s ready to roll me over, throw me down and just nail me. No matter if I complain it hurts, either.

I know I can make him behave better if I can just get him into bed and naked, with all the lights on. If I can kick all the covers off, and leave us with the honesty of being alone together on that expanse of cotton. Nowhere for him to look but where he can’t help but want to. Nowhere to hide his glazed eyes, his rampant prick.

But somehow, in the space of no time at all, I’ve managed to end up lying on my back along the couch with Greg between my knees. My shirt got unbuttoned. He’s running his hand over my belly, tickling.

He’s sucking my ear lobe. Increasingly firmly, wetly.

“Up the hall, baby?” I say, my hand on the back of his neck. My voice doesn’t quite come out right.

Then I lose words altogether, because now his hand is on the front of my pants. Tracing. Cupping. Massaging. Circling.

When it moves back to my belly, I can talk again. “Baby?” I say, “Bed, baby?”

We need to get the stage set, after all.

* * *

When Greg and I first started to fuck, the breathless, frantic, no proper lube thing was fun. It was also really chafy. And there’s only so much you’re prepared to take, of being held down and sweated over, then being insulted afterwards. So, the summer of eleventh grade, I decided I was going to teach Greg to behave. Here’s what I did.

We’d never seen each other over summer before. The likes of him and the likes of me do not soiree, needless to say. But he had summer training that year. So I swung by school, caught him alone between the gym and the dorm and batted my eyelashes at him. Offered him a cream soda — suspected that that one sailed right past him. Got him over to my house on the weekend, anyway.

So his other training began.

I considered the setting carefully. Made the bed, went with the plaid linen. Put certain very beautiful, but perhaps a little confronting, representations of the masculine form away in the cupboard. Burned a little clove and cinnamon oil. Not too much.

* * *

I tried way too hard, as it turned out. He took the idea of naked, my bed, my house, right in his, well, stride. The matter at hand was what to do with him then.

“Gregory,” I would say, “be nice.” I would be cupping, handling his balls, my mouth primly closed once the words were out. In the wake of a certain nasty habit of grabbing my ears and thrusting, he wasn’t allowed to hold my head. He wasn’t even allowed to touch my head, technically. But if he was making those nice breathy moans for me, I would tolerate him stroking my hair a little or trailing his fingers down my jaw.

The second nasty habit was the same old, same freaking old. I would finally get him to let go of my Goddamn ears, lie back and keep his hips still. And once he’d done that, he was all alone up there, and he’d start thinking about it. And he’d basically go into a rictus of shame and stare at the ceiling. If there was ever proof that most people should think as little as possible, this was it. Now, I happen to know I am a man of considerable talents in the cocksucking department, and the fact is that I like some appreciation. Do I want to blow a plank of wood? I don’t think so. So I had to get the man out of the bell jar.

There are very few problems this technique is not good for. Suck him till his toes curl, then stop, and make your demands.

“Now, Greg. Do you like that?” I would enquire.

He was about as interested in answering as he would be going to the ballet the night of the superbowl.

I would dawdle my tongue around the rim of his cock, and wait.

“Gregory?”

He would make a noise like he was seal pup I was strangling.

I’d run the tip of my tongue up the underside.

“ _Do you_ …like it, Greg?”

“Yes, Goddamn it!”

“Good.” Then I’d take it back in my mouth. Take it very deep. Easing into the gag.

I’d work my mouth up and down his shaft for a little while, till I could hear his breath catch. Then I’d ask again, licking around the head all the while, “Like it?”

If he didn’t answer, we were back to square one. If he did, I’d take it back inside, and we could proceed.

The next time I would ask him, I wouldn’t take his cock out of my mouth to do it.

I do like to talk with cock in my mouth. It keeps things interesting, and it makes my throat vibrate. Of course, they can’t actually understand what you’re saying, but if they’ve got the faintest clue, they still _know_. Of course, that’s no warranty on Greg.

He didn’t always get it. Then we had to start again. On the other hand, there was only one question, and only one right answer, so it wasn’t that hard. Usually he’d say, “Yeah,” and we could move on.

After that I would just make little moans with an upward, questioning inflection to them. These I could do without breaking the rhythm of sucking. I expected them to be answered with a moan from him.

He got a couple of chances to work out what I wanted. If he didn’t work it out after that, we were stalled again.

Over a number of sessions, he got much better at this — knowing he’d get what he wanted, if only he’d tell me out loud he wanted it. Once he’d broken his silence a couple of times, it was usually broken for good and he was right on board with me. The _ooh_ and the _aah_. The _hmm_ and the _mmph_. The gasp. The thing that’s like a throaty squeak. The _yes, oh yes_.

The wriggling hips. The hands going crazy at his sides, where he’s been told he has to keep them.

Finally the big, vocal _ah, aah_ like pain. The desperate grabbing my head (naughty!) and thrusting into my throat, coming deep and hard.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was how I began to teach Greg McConnell to make love like a civilised pervert. There were a couple more games in the series still to go. There was the _Are you hard? How hard?_ game. Then _You want to put that somewhere? Where? How much do you want to?_ Fairly self-explanatory, even for Greg. A more advanced one was _How does that feel?_ , because of course I disallowed one word answers. But he was well into the swing of things by then — he was downing my hurdles like the champion he is.

He came along in leaps and bounds. By the end of that summer, he was so much better behaved, he was actually a worthwhile lay, and I don’t say that lightly. Even the freak-out afterwards improved. It turned into just saying “shit” under his breath, cringing a little, backing off, finding his pants.

I really should patent this little program. I could probably have got his father voting Democrat.

* * *

Finally I’ve pried Greg off the couch, and down the hall we stagger, or more like waddle. We’re not going places at all fast. He’s holding me tight from behind, nudging his knees into the back of mine with every step, nuzzling his hard-on into my ass. He’s kissing my neck. Undoing my belt. Giggling.

He’s being such a good boy tonight. Thinking about that little nuzzle from behind, how it’s going to turn into having him right up inside me, sends a shiver down me, from my neck all the way to my ankles.

He fumbles the bedroom door, and we’re inside. The faint trace of cinnamon and clove.

Just beyond the door, he drops my shirt off my shoulders. Trails his fingertips down my upper arms, still from behind. No more giggling, all of a sudden. He eases my fly down ever so slowly, humming in my ear. Drops my pants down my hips.

“Mmm, Blaine.” So close my ear vibrates.

His hand slips down the front of my boxers. He flattens my erection up against my stomach. Eases my boxers down over it with the other hand.

Kisses along my shoulder. His free hand traces my belly button, dips a fingertip inside. Trails back and forth across a nipple until it puckers. The first hand still holds my cock flat against my belly. It burns my skin.

I lean back against him. Make a squeaky little sound. I think it’s me who says, “I’m melting.”

He says softly in my ear, with warm breath, “I want to suck you off.”

We start up the waddle again towards the bed. That unspeakable bump against my ass.

We’re nearly there when I turn around. Push his t-shirt up to where he can take the hem from me and pull it off. He sits down to take off trainers and socks. Stands up again so I can push his sweatpants down.

There he is in Y-fronts. So wholesome, so utterly dorky. I once walked in on my uncle Micky changing, and that was what he was wearing.

Greg’s mouth is trembling. I put my arms around him, stroke his ass through the Y-fronts. Breathe on his chest, smell his skin. It’s like dorm cooking, clean cotton, and just… skin. I kiss him, admit his tongue to my mouth, slip mine around it.

I pull the Y-fronts down. Kneeling, I take them off under his feet. I lean my cheek against his hip.

“My turn first,” I whisper, standing up. Bracing my hands on his chest, I shove him onto the bed.

The sheets do a little billow around him where he falls. His eyes have gone that indigo colour.

“Scoot up, sweetie,” I tell him, my voice low. I lie down between his thighs. Touch him a little, butterfly-lick him. The mattress creaks with his weight shifting.

When I take the head in my mouth, his whole body starts to tighten. He’s like a guitar string coming into tune. His back arches slightly. His limbs kind of unfurl out from his body, tautening.

Far, far away there is a noise. A noise something to do with wood somehow.

The wet sounds my mouth is making on Greg’s cock are far more interesting. Greg’s heavy breathing, his _yes… yes… yes_.

I think the noise came from… downstairs. And it’s continuing. It’s coming upstairs.

Oh Jesus. It can’t be twelve yet.

It can’t be.

My cock is an iron bar pressing into the mattress. My cock is damp with grief. I suck Greg down deep, right into the back of my throat.

“Baby,” he squeezes out.

Then the door flies open.

All I can do is roll over, lie back and watch the show.


End file.
